


A Family's Throne

by FuriousPoplar



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Bedtime Stories, Chairs, Does a chair count as a character?, Fluff, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 05:49:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8611117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FuriousPoplar/pseuds/FuriousPoplar
Summary: Toriel's reading chair has been through a lot.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this last weekend at 2 AM when I should have been sleeping but had spent too long playing FTL and screaming and thus wasn't tired. Anyway I forgot about it until tonight so I'm gonna upload it because I have this unrealistic, unobtainable dream of having something resembling a weekly upload schedule.

The chair could not, in any way, be described as excessive or extravagant. It was simple, to put things bluntly, with pale, grey upholstery and not a hint of decoration to be found. The left side is a darker shade, weathered from spending so much time mere feet from a warm fireplace. It’s larger than most chairs, but not abnormally so. Hidden inside is a simple mechanism that allows it to rock back and forth as gently or as roughly as need be. It’s a nice chair, many would say. It’s an old chair, some could attest.

 

It was built by hand as a gift specifically for the Queen by a humble carpenter. He used oak wood to build its frame, a kind found nowhere in all of the underground. He cut the chair’s pieces from the few logs he had managed to carry with him, when he and the rest of monsterkind were banished from the surface. A part of him worried that he must protect them, keep them safe, and treasure them like the rare commodity they were. Lock them away and never use them, lest he lose all he had left from his old life. But, ultimately, he couldn’t stand the idea of letting good lumber go to waste. Besides, the Dreemurrs were worth it. They were the reason he had ended up down here, rather than scattered away as dust in the wind. He’d gladly build them something as simple as a rocking chair if it meant thanking them for all they had done for his people.

He was lauded and thanked thoroughly for his kindness. The King himself even invited him over for tea— hardly a noteworthy offer, coming from him, but a greatly treasured one nonetheless. Truthfully, he was simply glad that he didn’t have to help move the damn thing. Good lord was it _heavy._ If, somehow, it were to topple over, anyone or anything unlucky enough to be beneath it would be crushed into nothing. The King, of course, hefted it over his shoulder like a fluffy pillow and set it down gently in his new living room.

The Queen loved it. It rocked silently and smoothly. It had ample cushioning, but didn’t sink in too far. The arm-rests were spaced far enough apart that they didn’t dig into her hips, but not so far that she couldn’t comfortably use them. And how sturdy it was, too! She had a feeling that she would get an astounding career of service from it.

 

 

 

The chair dauntlessly endured many, many years, and became very familiar with the King and Queen before someone new would sit in it.

The King and Queen, or Asgore and Toriel, as they so fervently insisted on being called, had introduced the world to a new member of their family. Asgore had, in an entirely accidental display of competence, named him Asriel (it took Toriel a very long time to realize how he had come up with it). The underground had been thrilled to meet him; more than just being adorable, the prince gave them hope. They knew that one day, he would accomplish great things.

But Asriel and the chair had a distant relationship at best. They scarcely were in contact with one another— Asriel would always sit on his mother’s lap, and his mother would always sit on the chair. The two of them did not interact and did not think much of anything of the other, as one was incapable of thought and the other was made of wood. It took several years of living under the same roof before they would become properly acquainted.

One hectic evening, full of political troubles and urgent matters demanding the full attention of his parents, the poor three-year-old little boss monster had been left all alone. He softly called out for his mom, his dad, for anyone at all to alleviate his loneliness, but nobody came. Knowing no other options, he clambered up onto his mother’s favorite chair, nestled himself against the arm-rest, and began to cry. As he waited, alone and afraid, he began to sink into the cushions. Suddenly awash with feelings of warmth and comfort, his sobs stopped, and he fell asleep.

His parents returned to find him sleeping curled into a ball with puffy, wet eyes. As they swept him up in their arms and showered him with soothing words and loving embraces, he clung to them like he had never before. They knew, then, that they were to never leave their son alone ever again. Not even for literally sixty seconds while they answered the door.

 

Short years later, Asriel became the first to leave a permanent mark on the chair, by means of an overfilled cup of tea with too much sugar in it and an enjoyment of ceaseless fidgeting about. He hadn’t told his parents, of course, not wishing to get in trouble for bringing harm to his mother’s favorite chair. By the time Toriel had found the stain, it was too late. The damage had been done.

Asriel was no longer allowed to drink tea in the chair.

 

 

 

Just as the chair had been getting into the groove of things, again. Just as it had finally grown accustomed to Asriel’s youthful energy and clumsiness. Just as it had finally, after so long, returned to its peaceful state of routine and familiarity after having so much change thrust upon it, after being moved from its original home, someone new had to come along.

If furniture could sigh, Toriel’s chair would have blown New Home right over.

The new person was from the surface. In a way, they and the chair held a special bond from the start. They had both been torn apart up above and brought down to the underground to be reformed for a better, safer life.

Chara got to know the chair very quickly.

They had something of a rocky start with it. At first, they had refused to approach, let alone touch anything in the house without permission. Confused and anxious, they did not speak unless spoken to, did not move unless asked to, and did not sit unless begged to. Weeks passed. Slowly, so slowly, they began to accept their surroundings, lured in by the promises of pies and gardens and kind smiles and a loving family and a warm home. Eventually, they were introduced to the chair in the same way that Asriel had been; sitting on Toriel’s lap, nestled into the crook of her arm. Listening, enchanted, to her readings of ancient tales of selfless heroes and terrible villains. But, when Toriel was elsewhere, Chara would bring their own stories to read atop its cushions.

They grew to love the chair, in the same way that a child their age would love a stuffed bear. It was soft, and comforting, and good to sleep against. The chair is where they learned to knit, cursing under their every breath at the jitter of their nervous hands. The chair is where they had asked Asgore and Toriel if they loved them, and were given an answer that surpassed even their wildest dreams. As well, the chair is where they spent countless lazy afternoons with Asriel, huddled together and reading the same stories of good and evil to one another.

Chara, too, left their mark on the chair. They had skipped on washing up properly after a long day of gardening, and when they sat to relieve the ache from their back, their shoe left a faint streak of mud against the front of their mother’s favorite chair.

They didn’t tell anyone, of course. They knew what happened to kids who weren’t careful. To kids who ruined things.

It took a lot of gentle, patient assurances to coax Chara out from under their bed. No matter what she told them, whether it be that she wasn’t upset, or that it had been an accident, or that it did not bother her at all, they couldn’t bring themselves to meet Toriel’s eyes that day. From then on, they always double-wiped their shoes before they went inside.

 

 

 

The chair had twin, far away in the Ruins. It was a darker shade of brown, and built of wood cut from Snowdin’s forests. It had been paid for, not given as a token of gratitude. It was newer, and it was younger, and it hadn’t ever known anyone but the Queen. It had never creaked worryingly under Asgore’s weight. It never had tea spilled on it. It never had a muddy shoe scuffed against it. And it had never aided in reading bedtime stories to Toriel’s beloved children.

But, the twin knew Toriel, and it knew her well. It knew the rough grip of her claws against its arm-rests, when she lost her temper. It knew her weak slouch, when she lost her spirit. And it knew her regular, straightened posture, when she wasn’t angry, and wasn’t upset, but instead simply bored.

The original still sat in New Home. Those days, it knew only collecting dust. Asgore didn’t dare sit in it. It wasn’t really his.

There were, rarely, new people that the twin would meet. Never for very long. Some would never touch it. Others would sit in it, once or twice, but never again.

The original met the same people, but knew them even less than its twin. They only ever passed through once, and never came back.

 

 

 

If furniture could feel surprise, the chair would have been flabbergasted.

After so many long, terrible years of isolation, Toriel had finally come back for it. With her, she had brought the two children it and the whole of the underground had missed so dearly. It didn’t know how they had come back— being an inanimate object, and all— but then again, neither did Toriel.

But she had brought someone else, as well. Yet another newcomer, clinging tightly to her hand. Staying very, very close. The chair had seen them pass by before, but if chairs could assume, it wouldn’t have bet on seeing them again. How fortunate it was that it had been wrong.

With a smile on her face and hope blazing in her heart, Toriel took the chair and her three children through the empty room where the barrier had once stood. For many present that day, it had been their first time seeing the sunset. For the five of them, it was nothing new, but they cherished it anyway. Soon, Toriel and her children moved into a new home. She, begrudgingly, asked Asgore to help her move her chair. She was no push-over, but good lord was it _heavy_.

The new child, as the two before them, shared the chair with their mother before they sat on it themselves. Frisk used it, from time to time, but not with any frequency. They preferred to lie sprawled out on the couch (a loveless, surface-bough upstart whippersnapper of a seat, if you asked the chair). But they would, on occasion, pack themselves in next to Chara when they were trying to knit or read and didn’t think they wanted to be disturbed. Other times, they’d pause to use it to catch their breath between sessions playing with Asriel. They were fond of the chair, the same way they were fond of so many other things. Although it didn’t mean much to them, personally, they were glad it was in their home, and they were glad that it made the rest of their family so happy.

But, one day…

It had been story time, again. With four of them, now, said time had become very crowded, but it was a treasured, precious time nonetheless. The three children and their mother sat snuggled together, caught up in a story of kind, merciful heroes and misunderstood villains. The fireplace cracked softly next to them, casting a warm, pleasant glow on the dimly lit room.

But, as the story drew to a close, the chair could serve no longer. Its frame, now countless centuries old, was beyond the help of any maintenance or repair. And, under the burden of a happy family, the chair broke.

Its back legs were the ones to go, splintering into pieces with a dry _snap_ and sending the four spilling out backwards onto the living room floor. Luckily, nobody had been hurt, but…

They stood and stared at all that was left of it, not one of them speaking a word. A mixture of feelings, from fond nostalgia to bittersweet loss surged over them. And there, in the orange glow of the fireplace, they held a moment of silence for Toriel’s favorite chair.

 


End file.
